


The Splendor of Lost Hearts

by BritaniaVance



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-03-21 12:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 6,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3692079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritaniaVance/pseuds/BritaniaVance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is near impossible to harbor any affection, for anybody or anything, when the sins of your past constantly beckon atonement.<br/>(Short chapters exploring Blackwall's character development throughout Inquisition)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I started this mainly as writing practice but I thought I would still share it, regardless. Any and all feedback is more than welcome! I literally started this immediately after prompting the in-game dialogue regarding the subject while in the Exalted Plains with Blackwall and Cole, and after speaking to Josephine I just had to write this out. I hope you all enjoy :)

_"Our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real.”- Hannibal Lecter_

 

I.

Everything about her is new.

She shines in the hearth light; her sleeves are gold-spun and glittering; her eyes glow like molten honey.

Her smiles are careful, but never shy. Her every movement is an integral facet of an unseen, choreographed dance, executed with the utmost poise. Everything she does has purpose, every gesture has meaning, and he cannot help but watch her every move – but with cautious eyes of course, a careful gaze held only in his peripheral vision, praying to happen upon the occasional ‘right place at the right time’ to award himself a mere glimpse for fear that he might stare otherwise.

He tries not to stare. It’s not polite.

With careful hands, she deals his cards, facedown and fair. This time, he keeps his eyes guarded, looking down, watching her slender fingers and finding himself just as entranced as he is with the rest of her.

The pads of her fingertips brush against his arm when she’s finished, a friendly signifier that this brief interaction has met its end. He watches her from the corner of his eye as she smiles and begins to dole out the next player’s hand.

He fans out his cards, cupped by wide hands that still have too much blood on them.

He wonders, sometimes, what it might be like to get close to her, to see what she smells like and how her voice tastes instead of sounds, but he would ruin her. She’s too young, too pure of heart. She still has hope for the world, and though he does as well, he has none for himself.

Not to mention, he’d ruin her dress.


	2. II

II.

She is all polite smiles and poise, and despite her otherwise pristine appearance he notices the small, inked calluses on her fingers from writing with such fervent zeal. Iridescent blue fingerprints mar his wrist after she assures him that his message will be delivered with haste.  
  
This is her seal of approval, her promise of purpose. With every request she extends a hand, in comfort, as a means of some sort of diplomatic amnesty. It sets him on fire and somehow he feels as if he has already ruined her by not telling her something she has never asked about… not that she would. No one asks about past deeds regretted and rued in the nighttime.  
  
She should never know, he vows, Maker forbid it.  
  
He turns away from her and bids her thanks, feeling her retreat behind him and hoping she suspects nothing as she makes her rounds.  
  
The barn feels cold when she’s gone.


	3. III

III.

She smiles at mealtimes, whether wistfully or mirthfully.

Stories are her favorite.

Whenever the dwarf sets to talking, she cups her face in her hands and forgets to eat, her fork abandoned on the table, her elbows propped up and eager despite the faux pas.

He smiles, but he looks away before she can notice, before _any_ of them see.

Busying himself with what’s left on his plate, he plans out his next project, scoring the wood in his mind before setting it to the saw, as Varric regales the table with another of Hawke’s misadventures. They all laugh. Cassandra _tut_ ’s despite the smile threatening to take over her face. The Commander lets loose and laughs in full, despite himself. Iron Bull mirrors his fervor as he pounds his tankard on the table, foam spilling over the edge of the cup and onto the scrubbed wooden table. Dorian exclaims something in Tevinter with a smirk as Sera begs Varric to tell it again, but just the good bit. Cole asks questions as the Herald laughs through a half-hearted attempt at describing _sarcasm_ with delicacy. She fails, but Cole smiles at the others, enthused by their happiness. Vivienne hides her smile by taking another practiced sip of wine while the Spymaster grins from ear to ear, her eyes retreating as if into a memory.

Josephine’s eyes are wide with surprise as her features succumb to her smile, melting into a laugh she can hardly contain. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. He can feel his face flush at the sight of it all. He laughs along with them, but redirects his gaze to the hearth, indulging in the dwarf’s story but finding too much of his energies invested in Josie’s – _Josephine’s –_ enjoyment of it. His laugh turns inward as he looks down at his plate, riddled with crumbs and the faintest memories of gravy, thinking it an appropriate analogy for his life’s work.

His eyes look up at her - and glance, one last time - to see her laughing eyes are watching him for a reaction. A small smile crawls across his uncertain lips as the laughs die down and she averts her gaze.

He feels cold.


	4. IV

IV.

There is something comforting about turning rough wood into carefully hewn trinkets, toys, tools.

Every piece is coarse upon choosing, callused like his hands. As he works, he wonders what it might be like to feel the tender plush of someone else’s skin instead. The thought feels far away. It is alien, wrong.

He pauses.

His hands stop, but his mind continues on. He imagines her again, but only in memory. The recollection is so strong he can almost feel her at his back, approaching him from the cold beyond the barn where he sets to work. She has her plaque in hand, her fingers half in the inkwell.

He smiles and continues his work.

The memory of her dissolves as he resumes, but they revisit him with the help of a few drinks at the tavern that evening. She always comes back.


	5. V

 V.

The toys are for the children, he tells them, but this is only half-true.

They are unworthy reparations for his gravest mistake; they are placeholders for stones he dares not take to their graves. He thinks of visiting them a thousand times over before he falls asleep, guilt ridden.

Part of him believes that any smiling child does some good for the world, but no matter how many trinkets he crafts there will never be enough to fill the small void he made in it.

They could have been married now, with children of their own.

He imagines the tots that run around Skyhold could have very well been theirs, had things gone differently.

They didn’t.

He hands a small boy a wooden shield and his sister the sword. They share the wooden horse between them and gallop to meet the Commander’s recruits as if reporting for duty. He watches as a young man ruffles their hair and mock fights them, subsequently mock dying by their wooden sword.

_Maker, what have I done?_


	6. VI

VI.

 _At least fighting for the Inquisition makes a difference_ , the Inquisitor assures him over drinks that evening. _We’re all doing our best to right the wrongs, to get things back to the way they were and make them even better_.

She is convincing herself as much as she is trying to coax him into complacency. She believes in what she says, despite her doubts, and the drinks they’ve shared have not dampened her spirits. If anything, she grows more ardent with every sip and argues as if he does not agree with her. He laughs and she settles into her seat again, realizing her folly and the bar keep takes her cup away, careful not to refill it this time.

He watches her with ardent admiration, thankful that she found him when she did though he wishes someone like her had saved him sooner.


	7. VII

VII.

He does not like the looks of the Spymaster.

Sure she is beautiful, stoic. She looks like an Andrastian statue brought to life.

The Iron Bull jokes about her secret desires, admiring the coppery red of her hair with sighing words laced with ale. He can see what the Qunari means, but her furtive glances and stray, side-long looks set him on edge.

He feels eyes on his back when he works in the barn. He would like to imagine that they are Josephine’s, but he knows that they are not. Most times.

Sometimes, the ambassador graces him with her presence, pressing for information about the Grey Wardens. She asks if there are any Wardens he truly trusts or if there was anything amiss about anyone in his time with the faction - and if either should come to mind that he feel free to visit her so the Inquisition can launch an investigation. _Come by my chambers, Ser Blackwall. Your insight is of utmost value to the Inquisition._

He likes the way she says his name, the way her eyes glitter, still enamoured with the idea of Grey Wardens on griffons, glory and days bygone. He can share in her enthusiasm, but he nods solemnly, only wishing he had information to give. Despite this, he promises that he will let her know, but instead fishes among memories for any trace of something useful. The effort is not just for her, but for himself, for the ghosts of long lost children, for men who died for a name he had now abandoned. He does it to put an old memory to rest.

The Spymaster knows, he suspects. He can see the children staring back at him when she looks his way. Her eyes are stern, though her mouth smiles. It is wry and full of knowing. Perhaps she wants to trust him. Maybe that is why she has kept her secret, as her trade would attest. Maybe she is waiting for him to show his hand, to place his cards face-up on the table, blood-spattered, guilt-riddled and totally bare.

He considers it.

When he feels eyes on his back, he knows they are hers and he sleeps all the worse for it.

 


	8. VIII

 VIII.

With wide eyes, he flanks the Inquisitor as they approach Adamant Fortress. Most of his energies focus on masking his surprise at the splendor. He does not recall if the real Blackwall had ever stepped foot here, so figures that he will only make up a story if asked.

He never is.

But the Inquisitor looks to him for advice, for wise words and a guiding hand.

The Grey Wardens are lost and he can be their beacon of hope. None of them know his face, but they have all heard of his false name, a name stolen from a man with far more honor than he. The Wardens look past the lie, unaware that it stands before them, and seek the comfort of his words. They pledge their allegiance to the Inquisitor, to the Inquisition. They bring solemn fists to their chests in a practiced act. They commit to the cause, but all eyes are on him. They watch him with frightened eyes as they hope for a future they can only hope to make better, despite all the wrong they wrought. He does not let them see just how much he understands them, and just how much he admires them for being so much more than he is, for being all that he is not.


	9. IX

 IX.

Despite much of the party’s pleas, the Inquisitor accepts the Wardens among their ranks.

With a pointed glare and a firm, stern mouth the Herald affirms that this is their penance. This is their second chance. They do no one good if they are dead, and what good they _can_ do will make up for those who already are. What example are they to set for the new world if they do not find use for guilt? Death breeds death, and those that reap it might as well help sustain life if they are given the chance. Justice is never easy, but they can repay for what death they wrought on the world, one demon at a time.

She does not know just how much these words mean to him. He is equal parts hope and equal parts guilt. Only this time, some of the hope is for himself.


	10. X

 X.

He stands before a legion of men and women who deem themselves unworthy, who go to bed ashamed. He knows more of their worries than they know.

With a power instilled by those around him, by those who know nothing of who he truly is, he offers advice, he doles out orders, he provides salvation. The words are not his, but the Wardens do not know this.

He has strung together speeches he has heard the Commander give his recruits, inspiring passages from some of Varric’s better written books, and peppered them with pep talks the Inquisitor has given him over drinks – the kinds she gives when he’s had one too many and begins to talk about dead dogs and the remorse they reap with remembering.

They watch with rapt attention, despite their inner darkness. At the back of the crowd, he sees her. She has a peacock’s feather stuck in her braided hair as she scribbles at the parchment in her hand with another feather of deepest black. Her dark skin gleams against the gold of her dress. Her eyes look up, but her hand keeps writing. The words do not stop, but her eyes do. They fall on him, and she smiles. She waits a moment before looking back at her parchment, undoubtedly remarking on the improvement of the Wardens in recent weeks.

Josephine will regale the realms with tales of his leadership. His legacy will strengthen with accolades and the Wardens might yet be saved.

His skin grows hot under her stare, and remains warm still when her eyes leave. Watching his audience with a sweeping gaze, he makes sure to extend his sight in her direction. She remains, watching him on occasion and beaming with pride.

He does not know just how much of this is for the Wardens, for fairytales, for the Inquisition, but he hopes that some of it is for him.

The thought sparks a memory; some sad story of ill-fated love and the inability to ever act on it. It was from Orlais, no wonder.

The romanticism does not make him feel better - but he does feel something rooting in his chest and igniting what organ poets claim steer your affections - and he regrets to admit that he likes it.


	11. XI

 XI.

A crumpled up report lies abandoned on the ramparts of the fortress. He notices that it is missing only a moment too late, but he cannot turn back.

 _They will all know in time,_ he assures himself, though the thought is none too assuring.

He races atop an Orlesian Courser, one resembling the mount he had long ago. This seems fitting, somehow. His new name grants him the courage to reclaim his old one, to atone for the dead and the undeserving.

 _No more will die in my place_ , he thinks, lamenting the fact that he can only die once. If only he could have answered for his crimes in the first place, if only he had not been a coward.

Still a coward, he leans forward, urging the horse beneath him to defy its limits and reach Val Royeaux.

The cold mountain air bites at his exposed skin, ripping it raw. The hanging will be much worse.


	12. XII

XII.

He could use a stiff drink.

Approaching the stand, he expects the crowd to part as they recognize him. No one moves because no one knows. He is just a pushy bystander seeking a better view. His face is not the one associated with the name he has come to reclaim.

The prisoner is brought to the stand, tied and tired. A man unrolls a theatrically large piece of parchment from which to read the prisoner’s crimes. Lieutenant Cyril Mornay is on his knees, too ashamed to meet the many gazes looking up at him from the gathered crowd.

Apologies rise in his throat like bile. Twenty years’ worth of excuses form like a cork that keeps him silent as Lieutenant Mornay’s offenses are announced to the crowd as if he is to be an act at the circus. _Look on, ladies and gentlemen, as this completely excuseless criminal faces a fate long due_. _Watch as Justice does what it is bid to do._

The man remains unaware that the crimes he relays are not Monsieur Mornay’s, but another’s. The accused stands helpless, his head hanging as he rests on his knees in a forced confession.

The words of a man long dead break the onlookers out of their uninformed reality, a reality where he no longer exists. He defies all that they know by revealing himself. _Thom Rainier, a demon made real in his convictions and real again with his confession._

The defense stands defenseless, the persecution unsure of where to lay the blame.

The rope comes down on his open wrists, aching for the taking. He deserves this. No less.

In fact, he deserves far worse.


	13. XIII

XIII.

He thinks of her in what might be his final moments.

He imagines the tales she was raised on, the sugar lacing what she knows of the world. He hopes she never hears of this, that her dreams are never tainted. He knows it is already too late. For her, for him, for everyone.


	14. XIV

 XVI.

The Inquisitor stands over him in a dimly lit cell. He should be dead by now, but the look in her eyes is the slap in the face that his cell’s bars prevent her from giving him.

Her eyes are slits, her mouth a pursed prison, tilting downward with disappointment and a hint of pity. He deserves the disappointment, never the pity.  The Commander paces beyond the Herald with limitless despair. He looked up to the Warden, but the man despises the criminal who cowered in his own fear and took on a false name, who wore a title that was never his to claim. When the Commander looks at him, he sees an old reflection, one he wishes no longer existed. Wounds may heal but scars remain. As Blackwall, he may have helped him forget, but now he will look on Thom Rainier with only disdain.

He deserves this. If he can do some good before his head sees the slab, so be it. And if that good means reminding a man to never return to his old, wicked ways, then he could not conjure up a more suitable punishment.

The man eyes him with sideways glances. If he thought the Spymaster’s looks were like daggers, these are like poison. Disappointment hurts far worse than suspicion, than knowing.

He wonders what the ambassador would think, if she rues his choices as she pleads with noble houses to still have faith in the Inquisition, that they knew not who they had hired to act on their behalf, who had convinced the Inquisitor to take in the Wardens like lost dogs who had done wrong. Despite what she truly believes, what she really feels in the deepest wells of her heart, she is fighting for him if only to save face and the thought of it all makes him want to retch.

But the glimmer of hope in the Inquisitor’s eyes stays him. She keeps his stomach steady. Despite the harshness of her words, this feels like any other talk they would have over drinks.

She does not scold him for taking the blame, but instead commends him and sets his blood ablaze. He does not deserve her trust, her sympathy. She is stern but understanding, and he hates it. But despite it all, she gives him hope. If not for him, but for what he could have been, that not all is lost, that the wickedness of this world does not end or begin with him. We all have a hand in this, good or ill. The Commander cannot forgive the ill, within himself or in the man cowering behind bars before him. He avoids his gaze, but the feeling of his judging eyes is pain enough.

If only the darkspawn had truly taken Thom Rainier all those years ago and swallowed the rest of the world’s wickedness along with his memory.


	15. XV

XV.

The damp despair of his cell is traded for the damp despair of a road in the rain. The mud cakes his boots but he complains none. The moon hangs solitary in a starless sky as he is led to a carriage cell that will bring him to Skyhold for reckoning. He hopes that lightning will strike the carriage, and only kill him this time.


	16. XVI

 XVI.

The sun stabs at his eyes as he emerges from the eternal dark of his mobile cell. He is shuffled along by rough hands into the daylight, all squinting eyes and disorientation. Part of him still wishes that this is all a dream while the rest of his mind awakens and knows that he is not that lucky.

The Inquisitor’s voice brings him to the true present, to reality from out of the darkness of the cell, of his past, of his mind. She has honed her stern look since the prison in Val Royeaux. She has perfected her motherly consternation as she assumes her place on the dais. The Herald takes a seat and leans forward, resting her chin on a thoughtful fist, not wondering what she will do with him but how she will say it. He can see it on her face.

She had already made her decision back at the jailhouse, she had made it when she watched him confess on the executioner’s stand as he relieved Cyril Mornay of torment and most certain death.

She is not one for the axe, but for the gentle hand always threatening to tighten the leash. Not like a master, but a trainer, a guide. He looks up at her like that poor mongrel he should have saved all those years ago. She does not close her door on him and feign to forget.

From the corner of his eye, he sees glittering gold, but he refuses to look at its wearer, afraid of what he will find on her face. He sees the Inquisitor look to her Ambassador, and he can sense that she nods in affirmation before the Herald announces his sentence.

He does not deserve her second chance, but she gives it to him anyway.

He hangs his head and he can feel the Commander watch on with quiet dissatisfaction. The others are kinder, but not all of them. The Wardens look at him with careful glances, but they know that they are beyond judging when they, too, have already been judged.

Air feels almost too heavy to breathe. The guards at his sides, men who once admired his station and prestige, cut him loose and watch him with slits for eyes as if he might lash out and kill all of their children. Or maybe that is just his imagination, wrought with guilt still too potent to let go of just yet.

The Inquisitor looks on, pleading. She believes, she has faith. She has to.

Lacking the discipline to keep his eyes away any longer, he lets his gaze fall upon Josephine. Her eyes are downcast as she chews her lip. She writes at the parchment held aloft in her arm with a careful hand.

He looks away before she can notice.


	17. XVII

 XVII.

Now he answers to a new Warden, a Warden from Weisshaupt who sent as a token of gratitude, of thanks, (a sly “sorry for your loss” though no one had died, at least none too recently) from the Champion of Kirkwall. An affirmation that she was, in fact, still alive and thankful for that fact. This Warden remains untainted, unlike the rest of them. Blackwall may not have followed an undead magister, but he is among them in their shame. Some avoid him, while others understand, somewhat.

Josephine returns with her plaque in hand, a spare feather in her hair like the last time.

When she sees him, she smiles, and his penance no longer feels so bleak.


	18. XVIII

 XVIII.

When he is not working, not training, when he is not feeling guilty, he decides to look up at the mountains and marvels at what beauty the world has left.

The fortress is wreathed with slopes most unforgiving, but also with flowers, and the flowers remind him of her. Bright and yellow, supple and soft, unrelentingly sweet against the bitter cold.

The scar in the sky threatens what living things remain, the Inquisition included , but if anything it at least makes what life lingers look all the more beautiful, enduring, and worthy of respect.


	19. XIX

XIX.

The party gathers around for another card game. This time the bluffs are called in regards to who can best feign their disdain for the man once called _Blackwall_. Nothing is ever said, but some poker faces are better than others.

There are those who mind not, and for them he is thankful. As for the rest… he cannot blame them.

But aside from those who remain bitter, there is Josephine, all tired eyes and non-committal bets. She deals her cards carefully, but without decorum. She fans them out behind her fingers with a concerned look upon her face, uncareful to mask what fated hand the Maker has dealt her.

She is worn with letter writing and negotiations that go well into the night and early mornings. She never leaves her chambers. Or so he hears.

He has overheard the Herald lamenting the ambassador’s poor mood, overheard her worrying for her health. Cole has admitted to leaving cheese in her wake so as to lure the mice, who will in turn lure the cats, which he knows she so adores, and leaves the mint on her doorstep to keep them there.

An idea sparks, his mind ablaze, and he thinks of how breathtaking the mountains are in the morning.


	20. XX

 XX.

He should not be surprised with the cold, but he curses its very existence with every breath. But he does not turn back. He dares not.

Winded and weatherworn, he climbs Skyhold’s slopes with careful steps. He does not need to convince himself of his effort’s worth. He already knows.

The rising sun shines upon the sea of petals one blossom at a time, the entire mountainside soon ablaze with light, and for a moment he almost feels warm. Glancing down at the fortress, he does not lament his climb or fear death from the fall, but he marvels at the sight of it all, at the view from the top of the world before it all potentially ends. There is something so bittersweet about the quiet dawn, about the world still asleep below him, and he thinks of his companions nestled in their quarters. He can see his barn from here, and laughs at the thought that it is most likely the draftiest of stations, aside from the Commander with his poorly thatched roof, still open to the heavens, _Maker knows why._

He looks over the fortress and knows that Josephine sleeps somewhere near the castle’s center, not just for its proximity to the heart of the place but for its trappings, for its lack of unfinished walls and views of nothingness. He imagines she likes the idea of a small city thriving inside such a small space, and drifts off to sleep forgetting about how nearly out in the middle of nowhere they really are. He does not think of joining her, as much as a drink or two might. But perhaps in another world, as a younger man, unblemished and full of honor, of fitter form and better station…

Twirling a plucked flower in his palm, rolling it along its well-worn crevices, in awe at just how bloody old he’s gotten, he thinks that it is better this way. He is good for no one, her least of all, but he’ll be truly damned if he can’t at least do something nice before the nether swallows the whole lot of them into endless darkness.


	21. XXI

XXI.

With a handful of silver, he asks a courier to deliver the bouquet and newly polished vase to the Ambassador, saying nothing of who it is from, taking mind to add that should she ask, it does not even come from a secret admirer. The flowers come from No One, and they would simply _be there_ if he could will it. He could ask the witch that’s taken to the garden, perhaps, but she has a certain look about her that sets him on edge, so he goes with the courier instead.

Upon handing it off, he heads to the tavern to drink off his newfound nervousness, to numb the fear that yellow isn’t a fashionable color this season, or anything else that could possibly go “wrong” – whatever that could entail.

The mage from Tevinter sits beside him, equally besotted by something the man is not too keen on discussing. They drink, side by side, in silence, and share in their own separate discontents.

He appreciates the mage’s lack of sideways glances, the fact there is no need for Dorian to mask his inner judgments, because he no longer harbors them. Unlike the Seeker and her Templar commander, their differences have dissipated and things feel different. It gives him hope that people can change, that they can be different, that they can be something other than what monikers others choose define them as. He holds his cup aloft and waits for his drinking companion to notice. Dorian looks up, double-taking before allowing a wry smirk to posses his uncertain lips. The mage obliges.

 _Cheers_.


	22. XXII

 XXII.

His ears perk up at the sound of her. Her melodic voice, smooth yet supple like Antivan velvet, placating yet another visiting noble as she shows off Skyhold’s embellishments, naming each item’s renowned donor. She makes politics sound sweeter than it is, but its stronger implications still leave a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought. He never knew for there to be a bright side, that there might be something worth admiring.

But his ears do not seek out her voice simply to revel in its smoothness, but they pick out words like _flowers_ and _delivered_ and _just this morning_ and _by a mysterious donor._

She has no idea, just yet, who they may be from, and there is no power they know of actively vying for the Inquisition’s attention that does _not_ involve wanting to kill them. She leaves it alone, but ends the thought with _but they are beautiful, are they not?_ as the unknown noble at her side agrees, whether wholeheartedly or as a pleasantry.

He cannot tell, but he believes her words to be genuine, and he smiles at the thought that he may have finally gotten something right.


	23. XXIII

XXIII.  
  


A month passes and little changes. The Inquisitor has rid of Corypheus’ right hand, but the ancient magister’s whereabouts are unknown and it weighs on them all. In the wake of dread and in the wake of bad dreams that bid him to believe that the world has ended, he scales the mountain every week and picks new flowers, for her.

He is not sure if it is because he eagerly awaits to overhear news of what she thinks of it all or if she has any new theories regarding the weekly ritual, but he finds that she looks at him more, she laughs more, she makes small talk wherever possible, her hand lingers longer on his arm after every interaction and she smiles all the more sweetly.

She never lets on if she knows, and he never tells.

The Spymaster watches on with careful eyes, but her smiles are sweeter too, no longer laced with unspoken secrets. He has nothing to hide, and he is not ashamed of the flowers, they speak for themselves. He does not deserve accolades for picking them, for having them sent to her if only to see her smile. If anything, she deserves far more than that, but this will have to do, for now.


	24. XXIV

 XXIV.

He may sleep sounder and his thoughts may resemble something closer to dreams rather than nightmares, but his resolve still dissipates at the sight of her.

Part of it is the yearning admiration. The other part of it is the shadow of a past he will never shed, a former self that will always be a part of him, hounding his steps and dogging his hopes. He has some of that hope for himself now, but not entirely. He dashed all expectation of complete happiness long ago. Only some bittersweet sort of content awaits him, if he can forgive himself.

Despite his progress, there are times when he sees regret paint her face, usually after a few drinks, between pauses when swapping stories with the Spymaster and the Seeker. They’ve asked that he join them, though Bull often joins as well – the fact that he takes up at the tavern in the first place probably has something to do with it, but he does not mind.

The Seeker has yet to speak to him outright, straightforward, without a direct purpose of official origin, but the Spymaster has eased completely. She seems to be more at ease with them all, in fact, as if she had shed a heavy shroud in recent weeks, and despite the looming doom of the world, she has hope against hope. Yet mirroring her change is the Ambassador – he sometimes allows himself to call her _Josephine,_ when called for, but perhaps calling her Ambassador Montilyet will remind him that she can never be something other to him, something more informal, something friendly – whose face looks tired and weary still. And yet, come morning every week, he finds that she is brighter, and perhaps he has something to do with it.

She looks troubled as the Spymaster recalls a story from her days in Orlais, laughing between details and looking to Josephine for aid in the telling. The Ambassador is distracted, but obliges nonetheless, as if she is recalling another version of this story in her memory but chooses to remain faithful to her friend’s fanciful version.

When the tale is over, the Spymaster drinks but Josephine’s face turns from despondent to thoughtful, and suddenly she asks _Tomorrow is the first of the week, is it not?_

Leliana raises a brow, and slips a sly _Yes…?_ into her cup as she looks at **him**.

He can feel heat rise into his face and stay there, despite his wishes.

The Ambassador follows her old friend’s gaze and her eyes fall upon him as well. He buries his face in the foam brimming his cup, but from over the rim he can see her lips curl into the sweetest of smiles. Her cheeks flush, too, and she shyly looks away with a wistful _Good._

 


	25. XXV.

XXV.

His limbs are plagued with a content sort of weariness as he ascends the slopes to Skyhold, bloodied but not beaten. A smile lingers on all of their lips, and though their eyes are tired he can tell that the party are all silently saluting the fact that they made it out alive. _Alive_.

The thought rings pleasantly beneath his ribs, syllables resounding as a heartbeat thrum, steadying his steps like a drum as they close the final stretch to the fortress’s gates. They are already open and welcoming, brimming with familiar faces that were once all strange and silent. Some of the faces he passes were ones that had once surveyed him with disdain, heavy with silent judgments, but now they all seem pleased, relieved, and ready to live again.

 _To live again_.

He sees her bright eyes the moment he comes upon her, and without hesitation she throws her arms around him with unbridled joy. His face flushes with pleasure, though practiced pause steadies the weight of his delight. He savors the moment, holding her close and keeping the thought that he was simply the first familiar face to walk through the doors at bay.

She releases her grip and surveys him at arm’s length, biting the smile from her lips as it threatens to take over her face. She kisses the hollow of his cheek, lingering for what feels like a sweet eternity, her lips grazing his beard as she finally pulls away.

  
Josephine smiles one last time, bright and beaming, before she envelops the Inquisitor in accolades and embraces.

  
He laments not lingering longer, not taking note of how she smelled or what her skin felt like, but as he follows her back he notices the yellow flower tucked into her hair and he no longer feels the need to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who read, liked, and commented on this piece! I may be writing a companion piece to this from Josephine's POV, and I may add one more chapter to this to sum things up and maybe work in the theme more, but we'll see. Thanks guys!


	26. XXVI.

 XXVI.

He sits alone at the feast, content to keep company only with a full plate and cup brimming with something savory to wash it down. His stomach eagerly awaits every bite, ravenous and relieved that he is not dead. He laughs at his body’s own gladness, if not already convinced that he is a little bit drunk. He decides to not drink any more, resolving to save sips for toasts and such, and instead decides to keep to the other exotic beverages that Josephine had fought tooth and nail and parchment and quill to have delivered before everyone returned to the great hall.

She still paces the banquet with a furrowed brow and nervous hands. He smiles to himself for her fervor but averts his eyes before she can see.

Watching the strangers that have gathered to revel in the Inquisition’s victory, he eyes the noblemen in particular. Once, he might have scoffed at them, and he knows that once upon a time he did. Working in Orlais, he had scoffed at many masks and wondered what foppish demeanors they veiled with glittering gluttony, but now he knew better – now he knew he was not one to judge, and now he thought of the Game a little differently, for _she_ played it with relish. He could never imagine her being too ruthless, at least not in any manner other than subtle insults dressed in eloquence and decadent words, but he wouldn’t doubt her skill or her know-how. But somehow he knows, whatever her weapon, that she was better than he, at least in character.

And still, she had forgiven him and every week she smiled sweetly at his secret gift and presented him with equally secret pleasures of her own – a longing glance here, a genuine compliment there, some hearty laughter at his petty attempt at joking during Wicked Grace.

He wonders what it might have been like, being a man in a mask, of noble birth, bearing blood that was worthy of her name and the Game. Would he have honor to spare, or would he be as shallow and cruel as some of the clever men that stood around toasting the Inquisition now? He might have been able to court her, surely, but he would be a different man – and though he wished for so long to be exactly that, he knew it was not the same. What he wanted was impossible, or what he _had_ wanted… no longer matters.

He feels eyes upon him, and after a moment he spots the Inquisitor considering him with a comforting smile. Others surround her, supporters bearing praise. She is tired, but her expression is thankful, and she extends gratitude with her gaze. He nods and she nods in kind. In a moment, she begins speaking as if she had not been distracted, as if she had not wished to sneak away and perhaps share a quiet drink or two before retiring for the next million years to rest her weary limbs. He feels the same, and he does not regret being forgotten. He does not deserve praise, but he is glad he has stayed.

He imagines again a non-existent noble Thom Rainier, unsullied and unspoiled. A man in a mask with a hand worthy of Miss Montilyet’s. Somehow he knows she would not have taken it, not knowing why he believes so. Maybe he wants to think that it is better this way. Maybe it is best he accept his current station, his lot in life. _What was that saying, the one back in Orlais? Les splendor des coeurs… something, something_.

His heart aches, but it is tender-sweet and satisfying. 


End file.
